Son of Ilúvatar
by Ethuil
Summary: With Boromir's death, his life does not end. In many ways it is just beginning. 'There are more worlds than the Middle Earth you know now, Boromir, and more powers at work in them besides the evil forces.'
1. Release

**Son of Ilúvatar**

The forest was quiet now. No birdsong after the yells. Darkness lingered among the leaves and swallowed what few tentative sunbeams contended with it. The air was stifling after the fight. The stench of death. 'Orc blood and rotten leaves,' Boromir thought. 'And I am lying among them. Is this all my life has come to? Ruin. The Fellowship. Our task. The White City. My life. Ruin.'

He did not want to think any more, to breathe any more. He did not want to get up. Failed. He had failed. Failed when he tried to take the Ring from Frodo, and failed even when he tried to make up for it, to give his strength and valour for the other Halflings. It had all proved in vain.

A tired, sweaty face swam into his field of vision, dark against the pale grey sky. Aragorn. The ranger who claimed to be king. Perhaps he was. It did not matter now. 'Too late,' Boromir thought wearily. 'You weren't there when I needed you. None of you. Your words cannot help me now.'

"You have fought bravely."

How could he judge that? It had been no more than compensation, or maybe even less, a reckless act of abandon. It had all started much earlier anyway. Hope had left him long ago, like a will-o'-the-wisp he had decided to chase no longer on its random and erratic flight. He did not know if these arrow wounds were deadly, and maybe he could still make it, be restored somehow to creep on through this dull bogland called life. But he was so fed up with it all. Wherefore fight any longer to stay awake in this pain? It was all for nothing. Wherefore belong to this any longer? It was all the same to him. He closed his eyes and retreated to some remote corner of his being, small as a nut kernel.

"Be at peace, Son of Gondor."

Peace? Bitterness flooded the remains of his soul, a brackish water of lifelong remembrance. Who had ever given him peace? Allowed him to feel at home? Loved him for who he was, without demanding performance?

His father certainly not. Denethor had always taken pride in his son's achievements and progress, but let him feel his disappointment acutely when Boromir had failed to keep up with his expectations. He was his father's favourite, all right, but not for who he was deep down himself. The first-born, that was what he represented, the role of the ever-strong and ever-responsible he had to stick to. He had been given into the hands of tutors, teachers and swordsmen to be made a fit successor for the Steward, while his father – a mighty ruler always closeted with his counsellors or away on some battlefield, too busy to cuddle a little boy who had to be hardened into independence, weaned from womanish feelings anyway – had been little more than a legend; one of his storybook heroes, the one he could be especially proud of. Yet, in his loneliness, to him it had felt as if his father had been away on a distant planet. As if he did not have a father at all.

And his mother? Even before he lost her at the age of ten, she had been so wrapped up in her own grief that he could not reach her. Her soul always more in Dol Amroth than with him. Fragile, lonely, homesick Finduilas – he had never dared to burden her with his problems for fear she might break like a reed. Or retract even further into her melancholy.

There had been women in his life, but had they really loved Boromir? They had adored the Captain of Gondor, courted the favour of Denethor's favourite, worshipped muscles and good looks and masculinity and heroism. Finglas for instance. Always eager to boast with him before others, she had derided him when he showed weakness, when he wanted to let himself go, to weep. She had always wanted to change him, to fashion him after an ideal image stored in her mind. Well, looking back, he had never really loved any of them either. Not truly. At least none of them had been able to fill the vacuum in his heart, that empty, aching space which had always driven him to seek, to search – he did not even know exactly for what.

Random scenes from his life now flashed across his mind, racing into his consciousness and exploding there like fireworks. Niniel upbraiding him for being gallant, for being himself. Driven by unfounded, senseless jealousy. His own jealousy in return, when he had noticed her growing close to Faramir, a secret bond of companionship evolving between them. How his anger had flared up, obliterating any other feeling. Breakers of pride clashing on cliffs of pride, and then retreating undefeated, foaming with misgivings.

Himself shouting at Amrodel, every word a whiplash on her soul, a hit aimed cruelly well. Her hands stretched out to him, begging for forgiveness, his face averted, cold and unapproachable. And afterwards the regret, the wish to unsay words. Cursing his stupid pride which had kept him from running after her, from granting forgiveness. The urge to be forgiven in return.

Making love to Ríanwen. How dirty he had felt afterwards, how he had despised himself. He had never loved her, only taken her on for want of someone better, only obliged. The wish to undo things.

The moment when he had heard of his mother's death. Before his mind's eye he now saw the tapestry in the hall at Minas Tirith as he had seen and not seen it then (dogs and hunters in red embroidered tunics and white horses and a running hare without a chance of escape). A bewildered boy of ten, he had desperately fixed his eyes on this to shut out what he knew could not be shut out, refusing to comprehend what he comprehended only too well. Every detail of that tapestry kept sticking in his mind for ever after. The emptiness he had felt. How those woven pictures, the wall behind them, the hall, the whole palace seemed to crumble around him in noiseless, muffled ruin, to dissolve into grey dust settling on his feet, his lungs, his orphaned life.

Still further back, that moment in the hall at night when his parents had shouted at each other for the first time in what was more than a mere quarrel – the hatred in their voices, the hurt in Finduilas' eyes, the hardness in Denethor's. Much earlier already he had intuited their estrangement, but never knew, not even now, when and why it had started. Above all, he could not understand, neither forgive himself, why he had not managed to glue them together again, all of them, into a happy family. Even now he felt the blame, the rejection, the failure, as acutely as when he had laid that responsibility upon himself, impersonated that expectation. Boromir, useless Boromir, was not worth an effort at reconciliation.

The hall again. Boromir in his best clothes, receiving his first sword from his father. He could feel the pride in Denethor's eyes. How he had held it up, his sword, how it had glittered as the blade had caught the reflection of the hearth fire, how he himself had burned with eagerness to prove worthy of his father's trust. One of the few happy moments in his life. The thought of it only made him sadder now.

Himself and Faramir running over a meadow near Firien Wood. It was his birthday, and they were chasing grasshoppers. Again he could smell the aromatic scent of trodden grass and herbs, hear the chirping of the cicadas, see the yellow glare the summer sun had cast over everything, and sense the carefree happiness that had filled him then. What had it taken to turn a happy child into a miserable man?

The moment when they told him his little sister had died. Died before she was born. No one said it, but he knew it was because his mother had tended him in his light sickness, spent all her energy on little Borry who now at last claimed the attention he felt was his due. A sister! He would have loved her, protected her. Now he never even got to know her. Was that when he had started to hate himself?

Then the devious face of Belegor, who had taken advantage of him, blackmailed him for years to do dirty jobs for him, corrupting his mind and breaking his will, all under the guise of being his friend, of letting him share in a brotherhood. How could he allow himself to be pushed to such lengths of humiliation, only to be accepted by others? Was that when he had started despising himself?

Himself alone in that glade near Amon Dîn, in Druadan Forest at dusk, brooding over his life. The whole weight of this crooked world on his heart, pressing it down, the pressure accumulating, oppressing his mind, his senses, threatening to burst his veins, until he could not but let blood, anything to ease the unbearable pressure. How he had closed his fist around the blade of his knife and pressed, tried to squeeze out all that disgusting, soiled self. It had only been the start of a hopeless race against pain. And the relief afterwards had never lasted long.

The guys in the Guard, playing dice and cracking rough jokes. Sucking up to him as long as they hoped to take advantage, then ignoring him, walking all over him, preferring company of their own kind and rank.

Friends… He had had lots of false friends, some of whom had abused him, but for the majority of his life no best friend. First in valour and strength, in everybody's heart and affections he had been second – at best. They had taken him for granted, overlooked him. At any rate he was not their first choice, more an afterthought, if they thought of him at all.

No, they would not really miss him very much. Not even the Nine Companions. Frodo might even be glad.

The Companions … his consciousness slowly opened itself to the outer world again, and he realized that he was lying in a boat, floating down a broad river, the River Anduin, he supposed. The remains of his sword and his cloven horn were laid across his lap, his helmet was lying beside him. Under his head he could feel the soft elven-cloak given to him in Lothlorien, under his feet the weapons of his slain enemies, placed there by his friends. Placed there for his funeral.

'They must have thought me dead already. They cannot even wait till I really say goodbye.' Whether they could possibly have known better or not, for Boromir this was the final straw. He closed his eyes and departed without regrets.


	2. Transition

Water. The coldness of water around him.

The gurgling of water above him.

Sinking down.

Down.

Prim-

eval

silence

of the ocean.

Pull of the tide.

Water foaming above him, around him.

Breakers. Waves carrying him along. Waves lapping on a shore.


	3. Valinor

Boromir opened his eyes. He could see.

He was lying on a warm substance that seemed to be sand, yet each grain could be distinguished, was of a colour so intense that it almost seemed to vibrate with energy. Boromir raised his eyes. A bright yellow sun in a clear blue sky, dazzling white sparks on a bright blue sea, almost blinded his awakened senses. He drew in a deep breath. The air was fresh and fragrant. It filled him with a new will to live.

He got up and shook his arms and legs. He felt strangely light, almost insubstantial. The pain was gone.

Boromir turned round to face the land. The sandy beach stretched far inland, increasingly strewn with pebbles, then interspersed with rocks and boulders, some of them rather large and bizarre in form. Boromir's eyes wandered further towards huge woodlands. They stroked his eyes with a rich emerald green, breathed the same intensity of colours that rendered everything on this shore so poignant, so alive, so full of vibrant energy. A small stream ran from the forest to the sea like a silver girdle caressing a many-coloured garment. Far in the distance beyond the endless ocean of trees, a range of hills and mountains shone out in tinges of green and blue, with one prominent, roughly conical peak emerging from their midst and melting into the azure sky.

As if this mountain sent a greeting of welcome, a gust of wind ruffled the treetops, fanned Boromir's face and prickled on his skin. In a sudden impulse, he looked down at himself. His once costly, embroidered clothes hung in rags around his body, clearly displaying his wounds. There was no trace of his cloak or his weapons. Boromir suddenly grew uneasy. Ever since he was a boy, he had been inseparable from his sword. He felt naked, exposed, vulnerable.

And in the same instant he somehow had the uncanny feeling that he was not alone. He scanned his surroundings carefully, watching out for the slightest movement. A noise over there – only the fluttering wings of birds. A few mice scurried out of their holes to vanish again behind rocks. Rocks … Boromir got up and walked inland, the pebbles crunching under his feet. Suddenly, he stopped short and quickly withdrew behind a large boulder. Cautiously, he peered around it in the direction of the forest and found his suspicion confirmed.

What he had taken for one of those bizarre rocks was in fact a man, sitting motionless and gazing into the distance. Boromir studied him surreptitiously. His hair was dark, almost black, and hung down to his shoulders in long, flowing, slightly tangled locks. His face seemed proud and kind at the same time, though Boromir could see it only in silhouette. Apart from a long sword lying beside him, he did not bear any weapons. In spite of his simple, rather shabby ranger clothes, he seemed to exude a nobility that Boromir could not pinpoint. Sitting there tall, upright and fearless, he reminded him of the statues of the kings of old he had seen in Rivendell.

Just as Boromir was about to avert his gaze, the stranger suddenly turned round and smiled at him. His eyes were of an intense blue, the colour of a rich summer sky mirrored in a deep lake, and he looked Boromir full in the eye with an inviting, slightly amused expression. Boromir went over to him, suddenly eager for company.

"Mae govannen." He could not explain why he used the Elvish greeting, but somehow this face, young and energetic, yet filled with the wisdom and sad experience of ages, seemed Elvish to him – or at least more than human.

"Well met, my friend," the stranger answered in a quiet, friendly voice.

Boromir sat down on the rock beside him.

"Where am I?" he asked.

"This is Valinor, the True West."

"Valinor! I thought it could only be reached by the Elves now."

"During their lifetime, yes. But you have come directly by the Ocean."

Whatever this meant, Boromir did not inquire any further. He knew he had crossed boundaries, somehow, and in spite of everything he was now glad that was not the end. He did not need or want to think further about it now. He gazed at the stranger again, trying to penetrate the mysterious aura he seemed to exude.

"What is your name, and where do you live?"

"I am in many places, and have many names. In Middle-earth men usually call me Galathorn, so you may use that name for me if you wish."

"So I will. As for me, I used to be Boromir, son of Denethor, Lord of the Tower of Guard. But now, in this strange place and state I am in, I am not sure about anything any longer."

"I know who you are."

"Who has told you about me?"

The stranger smiled. "I have often seen you myself," he said.

Boromir was genuinely surprised. "How can that be? I have never met you before!"

"Yes you have. But you never recognized me. I tried to get your attention many times, but you never noticed."

It did not sound accusing in any way; it was a mere statement to explain things that did not matter any longer now. Again, Galathorn smiled at Boromir encouragingly.

"Are you hungry?"

The thought of food had not occurred to him before, but now that he was reminded of it, he felt famished.

"I have caught some fish earlier on, and I've found a few wild potatoes. It isn't much," the ranger apologized, "but we could get a fire going – ah, and we could pick some wild berries as well – they're delicious!"

While Galathorn was looking after the fish, Boromir gathered dry sticks of beech and fir on the fringes of the inland forest. They soon had a fire going and grilled the fish on sticks while the potatoes were baking in the hot ashes. After dinner, they left their fire burning low and explored the vicinity, eating blackberries straight from the bushes and drinking fresh water from the little brook. The day was drawing to its close, the sun already turning into a majestic orange fireball and nearing the verge of the ocean. Every now and then they encountered small animals that were beginning to get active in the dusk, and they took their time to watch mice and beetles, rabbits and frogs, and to examine plants and flowers at leisure. Galathorn knew all their names and treated them with reverent care.

At length they returned to their camp, and, having put some more wood on the fire, sat down again to watch the dancing flames. Already while preparing the meal, Boromir had noticed a deep scar on each of Galathorn's palms, a little above the wrist, and they caught his eyes in the firelight now, but he did not ask about it, as little as the stranger had asked the Gondorian about his wounds or his past. This was a time for relaxation, and strangely enough Boromir did not feel restless or even curious, but was content to enjoy the moment without casting any thoughts behind or ahead. They recounted funny anecdotes to each other, stories of animals and people (Galathorn seemed to know quite a few of Boromir's acquaintances, including the hobbits), or made friendly fun of each other, their habits, attire and so on, and Boromir soon began to admire his companion's fine sense of humour and quick intelligence. He had not had such a good laugh for ages.

At length he yawned.

"Time to sleep, isn't it?" Galathorn agreed. "You can have my cloak if you want. I don't mind sleeping on the bare ground."

Something in the frank, careless way he said it made Boromir accept his offer without hesitation. He wrapped himself into the large, soft woollen cloth and felt like a small mouse or rabbit in its hole, snug and safe, watching the outside world at will without being watched in return. The last thing he noticed was a graceful dance of tiny glow worms on the fringes of the forest, which seemed to mingle with the twinkling of the stars in the clear sky overhead. Then he drifted off into a deep, dreamless slumber.


	4. Mystery

Birdsong. Small singing birds, and interwoven with their light twitter the wistful cry of gulls. The soft rhythm of waves lapping on the shore in the distance. Boromir drifted in half-dreams of his mother, cradling him in her lap, telling him about the song of the seagulls circling over Dol Amroth. He did not really know what she meant, but he felt safe and happy.

He opened his eyes. A blue sky interspersed with clouds, trees waving gently in the wind, a strange freshness in the air. A white sandy shore. The remains of a fire. A warm woollen cloak. Apples, bread and nuts spread out on a linen cloth before him.

Boromir got up, stretched himself and yawned. Now that he was fully awake, old, well-known feelings started to haunt him again. His body felt light and refreshed, but his heart was still heavy, weighed down by a nameless grief. It was hanging over his spirit like a dark cloud, a vapour of negativity even the strangely bright colours of this country could not dispel.

"Good morning!" Galathorn appeared with a smile on his face.

"Morning," Boromir answered, trying to force a smile which turned out rather wretched.

"What is the matter? What is upon your heart, Boromir?" Galathorn asked gently. The concern in his voice, which had grown very soft all of a sudden, seemed genuine. However, Boromir only muttered a weary "Don't know." in response. Then he heaved a deep sigh.

"Let's go for a walk, shall we?" Galathorn waved his hand vaguely towards the mountain looming up in the distance.

'Hmmm … alright, why not."

They had their breakfast in silence. Although the bread and fruits tasted lovely, Boromir ate little. Then Galathorn packed his few belongings and they set off.

As they left the shade of the trees and started to cross the open spaces at the foot of the mountain, a light rain was drizzling down. Boromir welcomed it. It made him feel strangely at home, weaving a veil of invisibility around him, caressing his face like the soft fur of a small animal. It was as if the sky was weeping tears of compassion, the tears he could not find himself.

The climb proved steeper than he had imagined, and after they had mastered about half of the journey to the top, they were enveloped in thick fog that barred all sight down or around. Yet the air was not stifling, and Boromir, wrapped in his own gloom, did not feel any exhaustion. They hardly exchanged a word during that trip, and Boromir was glad he was not forced to talk. He could not have told how long it had taken them to get to the top, where they sat down on two large boulders and rested.

Galathorn sat silent and motionless for such a long time that Boromir already thought him asleep. All of a sudden, however, he turned round and addressed the Gondorian:

"This is Taniquetil, the centre of Valinor, once the cradle of Arda. And yet it is only one of many places. There are more worlds than the Middle-earth you know now, Boromir, and more powers at work in them besides the evil forces. So do not despair. Do not give up on yourself, Boromir, Son of Gondor. Many people have had to endure failure and defeat, and yet in the end it has turned to good."

"Ha! You can tell me a lot! It doesn't mean a thing from someone who has never himself experienced such humiliation as I have!"

"And how do you know whether I haven't? I could tell you a story of a man who was slowly tortured to death, all the while being mocked, insulted, spat upon by his enemies, his soul perishing under an unbearable burden – I will spare you the details, but the physical pain was by far not the worst of it all –, and yet in the end it turned to mighty good for many. In fact, it was the only way to victory."

"Bah! Stories! Who knows if they are true!"

"Look!" Galathorn's voice was suddenly full of authority. The fog around them lifted. Boromir gasped. A deep purple sky appeared, stretching into endless space, with stars scattered all over it like gems on a velvet cloth. What astonished Boromir so much, however, was the angle of perception: Some of these stars were so close that he could recognize them as planets, even discern their surface structure. They seemed to be hanging in the air like ripe apples or peaches from an invisible tree. 'I didn't know Taniquetil was that high up above the clouds,' Boromir thought. His attention was captured by the blue planet closest to him, a blurred pattern of water and continents not so different from Middle-earth as he had seen it on the maps of the learned long ago. Yet Boromir's view of that planet was impeded by a looming black cross, suspended as it were in space, casting its shadow on the whole world. On the cross hung a man, his face drawn with suffering and privations, yet with a faint glimmer in his eyes that Boromir could not quite interpret. The face was Galathorn's.

After a long silence, Boromir finally turned round. "Who are you?" he asked hoarsely.

"I am Galathorn, Son of Ilúvatar. Ilúvatar and I are one."

Boromir's head spun, yet somehow he did not doubt it. "But why this?" he whispered.

"For a world not unlike your own. Whether removed by space, or time, or another dimension, need not concern you now. – Would you like to get to know it?"

Boromir nodded, his interest captured almost against his will. Immediately, he felt a hand over his eyes, and was suddenly surrounded by blackness. Then it seemed to him as if he was taken up by invisible hands and thrown down from the top of Taniquetil – he scarcely had time to scream – , hurled towards that mysterious planet. An explosion, and he could remember no more.


	5. Beauty and pain

When he came to again, the first thing he noticed was the noise. A constant roar, growing louder every now and then, rising in pitch and falling again, sometimes interrupted by a screech. He could not place it. As he opened his eyes, he found himself lying on a hard floor of grey stone under an overcast sky. The ground felt rough, cold and unfriendly to his hands. Boromir shifted uneasily. The whole atmosphere of this planet seemed to make him restless, uncomfortable. Its air burned in his lungs and made him cough. He took a look around. Metal boxes of the brightest colours – red, blue, yellow, silver – on black wheels were moving past, set in motion by some invisible magic. 'This is where the noise seems to come from,' he thought. 'and I wonder what these strange metal posts with their coloured eyes are?' He watched them for a while and noticed that their eyes lit up alternately, and accordingly the moving boxes stopped or were set in motion. Was this where they drew their magic from?

Boromir's eyes scanned the rest of the scene. On every side he seemed to be hemmed in by huge grey buildings, crowded wall on wall. Ugly blocks, made of a stone unknown to him, with flat roofs and large but graceless glass windows. The only change they presented was found in large but shabby banners of a hard material which paraded colourful letters he could not read. For the first time since that fight in the forest near Rauros, he found himself wishing vaguely for the palace of Gondor in all its splendour, the White City in its purity and grace.

Every now and then, people were rushing by, and Boromir was relieved to find they were human. Apart from their strange clothing, which to him seemed plain and cheap in material as well as design, and apart from the metal constructions some wore around their eyes, they looked like men, some of them perhaps with hobbit blood in them. Their most common piece of clothing seemed to be trousers made of a coarse blue material, and now Boromir realized that he was wearing a pair of them himself. The upper part of his body was covered by a brown shirt of a soft, linen-like material. Most important of all, his body had become substantial again, and he hardly differed from the men and women around him.

From scraps of conversation that drifted over to him, Boromir gathered with astonishment that the inhabitants of this planet spoke the Common Tongue – or at any rate, that he could understand their language. However, like the metal boxes, they were hurrying past, some alone, some in small groups, brushing against each other, not taking any notice of each other or of the strange visitor.

In the middle of this chaos, leaned against a square stone pillar that formed some corner of a building, there stood a young woman. Something in her slender figure attracted his full attention, almost mesmerized him. Slightly curled hair of a rich golden colour – not unlike his own – framed a white oval face with slightly slanting, almost elvish-looking, serious blue-green eyes. A black, tight-fitting dress emphasized her delicate beauty and set off her long golden hair like amber on night-black velvet. She looked so fragile, so lost in this bleak wilderness of stone and metal. A graceful flower wedged in between stone slabs, a rose in the desert. Somehow she reminded him of his mother.

He slowly approached her, his eyes fixed on her steadfastly for fear this ethereal apparition might vanish into thin air and be gone. "What is your name?"

She cast down her eyes and was silent.

'Am I intimidating her?' he wondered. Suddenly an irrational panic gripped him that he might scare this delicate creature away like some beautiful wild animal. That he might lose her the moment he had found her. That he might awake and find it was only a dream.

"I won't tell you my name," she finally said, and her blue eyes were directed steadfastly towards him now. "Because I don't like my name."

He had never heard such an interesting voice before. Perhaps much of its effect came from the fact that she pronounced every word very carefully and distinctly; but above that it was so rich and deep that it seemed to contain everything: a clear, acute ability to analyse and maturity to reflect things, yet a freshness and dreaminess, a tinge of wistfulness; something like acceptance or resignation, and yet a strength and resilience; a certain caution, but capability of enthusiasm if a worthy cause was found.

"Hmmm ... what shall I call you then? Have you got a nick-name? A pet-name? What does your father call you?"

"My father doesn't call me much at all, because he has left us long ago."

"Oh – I'm sorry. What about your mum?"

"She doesn't have any pet name for me. (And not much time either.)" The last sentence was muttered more to herself than to him.

A surge of compassion flooded his heart and gushed towards her. How well he knew these feelings! Even beyond the bare facts of life circumstances, he recognized a kindred soul. From the way she looked at him, that proud little shake of the head, to the depths of thought, and yes, of pain, that were mirrored in her serious grey-blue-green eyes (he could not make up his mind exactly on the colour, since they seemed to change). His heart jerked with a sudden jolt of longing. He felt it pounding as he asked, "And your boy-friend?" A bitter laugh was her only answer.

"Hmm… If you don't mind, I will call you Ninglor. Where I come from, this is the name of a golden flower growing in the water. For you are as graceful and beautiful as a flower, a delicate golden flower with your golden hair, and your eyes remind me of water – in all its facets." And it had to be an elvish name for her, he added in his thoughts.

She burst into a light laugh, and a smile appeared on her face, lit up her face in a sudden change that was like a sunrise, a sunburst, like the moment when Rivendell, the Last Haven of the Elves, had presented itself to Boromir's eyes for the first time, the valley clad in a golden array of sunlight, its waterfall dancing in a dazzling eddy of beauty, of stunning, unearthly radiance. He had not been prepared for this, neither then nor now. It disarmed him, completely overpowered him. He swallowed hard.

"Thank you," she then said, in a very natural, sincere and heartfelt way that conveyed to Boromir the feeling that he mattered to her, that what he said was important and was taken seriously. "And where do you come from?"

'Can I tell her? Will she think I'm mad? Or will she fear me?' "I come from a place that has got much more nature. Huge forests, majestic mountains, rivers running proud and free…" ('Hmm,' he thought, 'I'm getting really poetic about Middle-earth – I must be missing it!')

"Oh, it doesn't look like this everywhere in our country," she retorted. "There are nicer places here as well."

"Would you mind showing me one?"

She looked at him with furrowed brows and a sceptical expression in her eyes. "There isn't any nice place near, really. And it's getting dark pretty soon. – Well, we could go to the park if you want. It isn't much, but still …"

'The park' was a pond, fringed by rushes and surrounded by some old weeping willows and a few trees and bushes unknown to Boromir. Still, the blue and green colours, the less poisonous air, the birdsong instead of machine noise, were balm to his senses. He stole a furtive glance at his companion. Yes, she looked much more in place among the rushes, beside the water. Ninglor. His golden flower. If only she were his.

In fact she seemed happier here than she had been ever since he had met her. They pottered about among the trees and flowers, and she told him the names of the different plants and what they were supposed to be good for. She also invented charmingly odd stories about small beings who lived in these plants and cared for them, and then went on to strange animals he had never heard about, which were living in another part of that planet where she had spent some of her childhood. After that she started to spin myths about fabulous creatures, good and evil. Boromir hung on her every word.

"Would you like a sandwich?" she suddenly asked. Boromir had already got used to her habit of changing topics abruptly, and far from annoying him, it fascinated him as yet another aspect of her oscillating, mysterious personality. She produced a small packet from the bag that was slung around her shoulder and unwrapped two half-squashed squares of a white bread glued together with a brownish paste. They cut it in half with his knife and shared it. In spite of the paste, which was very salty, it tasted stale and dead to someone used to the fresh wheat of Gondorian fields and the art of Gondorian bakers. Yet Boromir would not have traded it for all the cakes in Minas Tirith. Even the ducks on the pond got some crumbs. Boromir noticed he could hardly take his eyes off his companion. Her childlike pleasure at these simple delights – feeding the ducks, watching wild birds, catching glimpses of some mice, and once a squirrel – captivated him as much as the concentration and enthusiasm with which she recounted her funny or fantastic tales, or the grave, meditative expression on her face when they were sitting silently on a bench, side by side, staring out into the dark mirror of the pond.

"Tell me about your home," she suddenly broke the silence. So he told her, about Gondor and the White City, about the menace in the East, about Elves, about Rivendell, about the Fellowship and about his own failure. Hesitantly, haltingly at first, and reprimanding himself for his recklessness. 'I must be crazy,' he thought. 'Will she ever swallow this? Can she believe in another world besides her own? Will I scare her away?' But she listened without interrupting, intent upon every word, her eyes fixed on him earnestly, with a certain expression of trust and sympathy, so that he grew more confident and unburdened his heart to some extent, at the same time painting her a vivid picture of Middle-earth.

"Do you believe me?" he finally asked. He did not know why, but he felt as if his life depended on her answer.

"Why shouldn't I?" She sounded surprised.

'I love it when people don't negate everything outside their range of knowledge or experience,' Boromir thought. 'And by Ilúvatar, I don't know what I would have done if she hadn't believed me!'

He then asked her about her own life. She was eloquent on bits and pieces of her everyday life and her world in general, but he could only gather a scrap here and there that gave him insight into her personal concerns. He did not mind. To him, it seemed as if they had known each other for ages. No need for words.

So before long they fell silent again, each of them wrapped up in their own thoughts. Daylight had slowly faded into dusk, and the moon had appeared, a pale crescent far overhead.

"Will you go away again?" she finally asked.

"I do not know." It was the truth.

"I wish you wouldn't." It was whispered so quietly, almost inaudibly, that Boromir was not sure whether he had purely imagined it. He searched in her eyes, and she held his gaze steadfastly, without fear or shame, as if her soul had decided to open up to him through those shimmering blue-green windows.

Tenderly, almost tentatively, he took her in his arms. She did not flinch. He enveloped her, held her fast, imbibing her softness, burying his face in her fragrant hair. She nestled into his arms and they clung to each other, desperately, two little floating islands in a raging ocean, two small, frightened animals seeking to warm each other on a bleak, windswept mountainside.

He did not dare to kiss her, not yet. Instead, he took her hand and bent to kiss that – and then he saw them: cuts along her arm. Some scarred already, some fresh. He could never tell afterwards why this affected him so – more than anything else he had learned about her so far. He had seen, inflicted and received enough – and far more ghastly – wounds in his life. It was not that. His own history repeated? But he did not think of himself now. All he wanted was to protect her, to shield her, to love away this compulsion. To love away its causes. Yet, staring down at these marks of despair, he felt helpless, so helpless he could have screamed with rage. Far overhead a lonely owl was hooting. He had not noticed it till now – an eerie, uncanny, trembling sound. He felt tired, so tired. Failure. Ruin. The White City. This white flower. Our lives. Ruin.

What was that? A teardrop – and there another one – glistened on the pale skin of her arm like the pearls of a broken bracelet. Boromir became dimly aware of a presence. Looking up, he sharply drew in his breath. Tear-dimmed eyes of the deepest ocean blue, strong oval face with soft full mouth, dark tangle of hair – he had seen this face before, but never before this expression. Compared to the depths of pain and love he read in these eyes, his own love for her seemed superficial, insignificant, ephemeral.

A shy, infinitely tender touch. Scarred hands, torn by nails, on a scarred arm, lacerated by a fallen world. Enfolding. Sharing. Aching to heal.

An infinitely sad, infinitely gentle kiss. Warm tears on icy pain. Dying to heal.

Ilúvatar, the Creator of the Universe, was weeping for his beloved.


	6. Salvation

"Funny," Boromir thought, "I wasn't in the least jealous. Only touched. Deeply touched. I wonder, did she see him? Did she realize at all? Oh how I wish she did!"

"So do I, my friend," said a voice behind him, husky with longing. "So do I."

"Galathorn! Is there any way I could return there? She … she needs me."

"And can you give her what she needs? Have you got what you need? Have you got hope?"

Boromir weighed the question in his mind for a long time before he answered.

"I don't know. Maybe I have a bit more hope now … now that I've met you, now that I've seen… I cannot explain."

"Now that you've met me. And do you know me? Do you really? And do you know yourself?"

Who am I? I guess you don't really want to know. I am something I am afraid of, something I love far too much and far too little, something I hate and yet cling to, something that has become soiled and spoiled and makes me shrink away from the mirror in disgust. Something you wouldn't really want to know. Something somewhere among Orc blood and dirty leaves. What, after all, am I worth?

"Boromir, I want to give you what you are worth to me."

"Oh really!" He could barely hide the sarcasm in his voice. "And what would that be? A fig?"

"I give you my life."

"Oh, sure! You must be joking! What do you want in return?"

"Will you give me your life?"

"My life? What life? As far as I know, I'm dead!"

"Yourself I mean. All you are."

All I am? We've just had that bit. Whatever could he want with that? With me of all people? "You're not in for a very good deal here, I can tell you!"

"Boromir. Would you please stop pretending. Will you accept my life, laid down for you? Will you let go of the self you cling to and despise at the same time? Will you give me your pain and failure, your fear and hate, your darkness and despair, your sins and sorrows, your abilities and talents, your needs and longings? Will you accept my life and strength, my hope and joy, my love and fearlessness, my wisdom and guidance, my victory and eternal life?"

Boromir's head spun. What did all this mean? Was he asked to give up his personality? To become a nobody? Galathorn laughed, a light, refreshing laugh. "No, Boromir. You will be the same precious, unique Boromir. Only then you will realize it, become it, and you will be alive – really alive. Able to use your potential. Able to love."

The offer of a lifetime. What had he to lose that he had not lost already, that really would be a loss compared to the immeasurable gain? Why then was it so hard to let go, to jump off the precipice, to soar out into the unknown?

He suddenly realized that he was in his old body, with all the gashing wounds inflicted by the Orcs. Absurdly, he knew he had carried it with him, in him, all the time, even in that machinery world, only he had somehow forgotten about it. But it was there, it was him, and symbolic of his life, of all human life.

"Yes," he finally said. "I will accept your offer."

Galathorn's shirt, half-open, had slipped from one shoulder, and his companion saw a long, gashing wound beneath the heart which seemed to have healed, but re-opened. In a brief glimpse of vision Boromir saw himself inflicting that wound on Galathorn, repeatedly.

Little Borry, roasting butterflies alive, vivisecting frogs for curiosity. A stab, and another. Boro the adolescent, hatefully hacking away at his own flesh. Hacking away at Galathorn's flesh. Boromir the man, stabbing, slashing, killing the enemies of Gondor – and his personal enemies. Killing … Killing a man on a cross.

But it was smaller things as well. Mocking Firúnwen the outsider, proud of his ingenuity in finding the words that would hurt her most, that would earn him greatest approval from his jeering comrades. Throwing little Faramir into the mudflats, or into Anduin, relishing his screams, hating him for the attention he received from their mother. And numerous other things, now invading his mind like a legion of locusts.

He could not see how it worked, but somehow Galathorn had to pay for it. Chose to.

In utter consternation, Boromir broke down. Forgive me! Galathorn held him close, gently, soothingly, like a father a child. Boromir felt enveloped in forgiveness, bedded in forgiveness, tucked in under forgiveness and cuddled into a state of Everything-is-alright-because-I-love-you-and-will-never-forsake-you. Something in him snapped – something small and hurt and unwanted that had been shoved deep down to the bottom of his consciousness – and he cried, cried like a little child, let the tears flow and wash out age-old hurts and wants. Father! his heart pounded. I have found my real Father. "I need you. Stay with me. Be my lord. My captain. My king."

He did not know how long he had been lying in these arms. The next thing he realized was that Galathorn's hands, bleeding from those old scars, were laid gently on Boromir's wounds, their blood intermingling. 'My blood brother,' Boromir thought. He felt like in a trance. Was all this really happening, or was he just seeing it with his mind's eye? Or was it Galathorn's effort to help him understand, underlining and explaining the spiritual with the physical?

"Yes, Boromir. Trust me. I give my blood for you. My life for you. Let me share your pain. Let me take your burdens."

Burdens. The bitterness of a lifetime, seemingly small at first, buried and barricaded behind countless mechanisms of repression, rose to the surface of Boromirs consciousness, like water leaking through the chinks of a child's amateur dam. So much pain. He had not even known it was all in him, so much, but now it arose, a whirl of memories, pressing in on his consciousness, hammering in his veins, the pressure accumulating, growing almost unbearable … But Galathorn was there. All the hurt and hate – Boromir sensed it being gently taken from him, being, as it were, taken out of his soul's hands as he let go (reluctantly and with effort), being coaxed out of him with endless patience and love. "Yes," Galathorn whispered, "Give me your pain."

The dam broke. The poison of a lifetime – deep traces left by memories, gnawing shame and disgust at things he had done, things he had allowed to be done with himself, feelings crippled by bitter disappointment, the curse of being unloved, abandoned, rejected, despised, mistreated, even by himself – he felt it being drawn from his soul, rushing out in an overpowering turmoil of visions and emotions. Beads of sweat like blood drops appeared on Galathorn's brow, and his closed eyelids fluttered in inner pain and agony as the torture of another's life flooded his being, but in return, Boromir could feel a stream of living water rush into the vacuum, that empty space in his heart. What nothing, no-one had been able to accomplish so far: For the first time, that vacuum was filled.

They were one. Ilúvatar's spirit was in him, and Boromir could see his heart as Galathorn opened to him his own being. Galathorn's heart was Love.

And yet not a carefree love, not a positive illusion, ignorant of woe. A love founded on endless depths of ache, on an inconceivable degree of sensitivity, on experiences Boromir knew he could never bear even to know or share. As it was, he only sensed them vaguely from afar, as if through a filter. Galathorn did not allow them to touch, let alone overwhelm his friend. He only cautiously thinned the veil for a second, for a short glimpse: The pain of a loving heart, giving itself completely, making itself vulnerable like raw flesh, willingly taking upon itself the deepest depths of poison and evil – yet being ignored, misinterpreted, or wilfully rejected. His heart was broken day by day.

In a strange way, this comforted Boromir as much as it pained him. It made him feel understood. He was not alone.

At the same time, he felt a seed of compassion bud in his heart, compassion with all living things, a deep longing to ease the pain of the suffering.

And then, tired as one is tired after a long, adventurous journey, he fell into a deep sleep.


	7. Fighting the Demons

Over the next days (if days were counted in Valinor), they roamed together through forests for hours on end, and they talked about many things. Boromir could not remember having ever felt so relaxed and at the same time so full of vigour. He drank in the fresh air of Valinor in deep draughts, fed his body on the wholesome food offered by the wild and his soul on its many colours and sounds and smells. His wounds were healing rapidly now. However he had managed to find it, Galathorn had given Boromir back his own sword, his beloved blade of Gondor. He had moreover presented him with a ranger outfit similar to his own as well as a finely embroidered, light but durable cloak similar to those made by the Elves. Its grey-green, shimmering material seemed to stay warm in the cold and cool in the heat, adjusting to the needs of its wearer.

Boromir thoroughly enjoyed travelling and camping out in the wild again. Wandering under a roof of leaves so dense that they often blocked out the sky, scrambling over rocks and fallen tree trunks, digging his bare feet into cool pillows of ancient mosses, stepping from black walls of fir trees out into sunlit glades bursting with birdsong, following winding brooks and gurgling streams through bog and rushes to deep pools carpeted with water lilies, every now and then noticing little mice scurrying away from almost under his feet or sensing the presence of bigger animals watching him serenely from a safe distance, Boromir had soon lost all sense of direction. He walked as if in a dream, and could not even have told whether they were still in Valinor, or in Middle-earth, or in whichever of the many worlds Galathorn seemed to frequent.

They had come out of the forests onto a grassy plain now, to their right hills growing into jagged mountains as Boromir followed them with his eyes, to their left a vast bogland. The day was fading into evening, and already a cold, clammy mist was drifting over the plain, arising from the moors. Yawning, Boromir looked up at the pale reddish disc of the sun setting slowly behind a shroud of clouds, and he began to wish for a nice supper and warm bed. His eyes roamed over the plain to fathom the distance … and there in the fog he suddenly saw them.

Dark shadows with gleaming red eyes. Roughly of man-shape, but larger, with something like wings, and surrounded by an undulating atmosphere of malice. Less solid forms than emanations of evil. The sky seemed to darken at their approach, to breed a murky red under the gleam of the setting sun, the way the air grows gloomy and oppressive around a smouldering forest fire. For a moment, Boromir imagined himself back in Minas Tirith, as a small boy, reading the history of Middle-earth by the fireside at evening. He remembered the drawing … Shadow and Flame. Monsters of the First Age. Balrogs. The Demons of the Deep.

Shuddering, Boromir recoiled in terror. Captain of Gondor or not, he was not ready to meet such a foe.

They advanced, slowly, in dead silence. All Boromir could hear was his own heavy breathing. Somehow, these shadows felt vaguely familiar to him, and he almost imagined them whispering, beckoning him to do all kinds of evil things, forcing him … Then they suddenly stopped. One of the shadows moved a step further than the others and raised a shapeless arm towards the human. Icy despair crept into Boromir's heart. 'Galathorn!' A wordless cry rose from some corner of his mind like the bubbles of a drowning man from the depths of a lake. Galathorn! Where was he?

Spinning round, Boromir saw his friend – eyes fixed on Boromir and brimming with tears – slowly draw his sword, move his hand along the blade and then forcefully close his palm into a fist around it, into it, taking hold of the pain in grim determination.

'Oh my God,' Boromir thought. 'They are my demons. This is what they have been doing to me! This is what I am doing to him!'

Galathorn's lips moved in silent prayer. Then he suddenly jumped up, gripped his sword by the hilt, eyes gleaming, and with that proud little shake of the head – Boromir's shake before encountering an enemy in battle – he shouted: "Come on, Boromir, let's put them in their place! I have no fear of them!" The blade now glimmered in a searing white, which made the blood – Galathorn's blood – dripping from it look like little sparks of fire. In fact, Galathorn himself seemed to be suffused by a white light. The shadows hissed and snarled in malice, anger, fear.

For a moment, Galathorn turned round and looked Boromir full in the eye. His eyes seemed to Boromir like elven stars in a dark night sky; like Earendil's or Elbereth's radiant gems as once they had arisen before his closed eyes, awakened by the storytellers' magic at Imladris; like the light of Ilúvatar himself, the Secret Flame of Anor. Strength flowed into Boromir, and suddenly all despair, all fear was gone. He gripped his sword and joined Galathorn. Side by side they fought, suffused by one light they charged against the darkness, aflame with one wrath they put the enemy to flight, saw the shadows retreat under ear-piercing screams, watched them fade away into nothingness.

Triumph! Boromir's heart leapt for joy. He felt as if he had been transported from a deep, dark hole onto an open sunlit field stretching out beyond the horizon. Freedom! Nothing was impossible! He danced and frisked down the plain, singing out loud, an old Gondorian song of victory.


	8. The Final Decision

"All roads are open to you, my son, and the choice is yours. The days appointed to you are not yet completed, but if you decide so you may stay here with me now. Yet I will open to you any world you wish to enter. Only, this time the decision is final."

They were standing on the top of Amon Hen, and Boromir's eyes drank in the rich green of the forests, the silver sheet of Anduin, the blue ridges of the distant mountains. The warm sun of Middle-earth was caressing his face and bare shoulders and tugging at his heart. Return! He could return to Gondor! Even the wounds, even the pain, even the Dark Lord himself, had lost their menace. His hope was stronger, his spirit's armour impenetrable. Middle-earth! His home.

An eagle was crying up in a sea-blue sky, enjoying its freedom in a wide, sweeping, circling flight full of power and graceful ease. Far below, still looking down from the heights of the old Numenorean watchtower, Boromir, son of Gondor, saw his body float down Anduin towards the Rauros Falls. Now was the chance to return. The sun was sparkling on the water, and the distant roar of Rauros was drawing him, beckoning him. Following the course of the river in his mind, he could see the White City, imbibe the beauty of its towers. His pride. His home. His people. The country he had sworn to fight for. The pearl of Gondor that needed every man – especially its captain. Minas Tirith. Resplendent like the sun on the water – and as transitory?

With furrowed brows he looked into Galathorn's face, searching there for the right decision. It obviously did not matter to Ilúvatar. In a way, Ilúvatar was all that mattered to Boromir, but He would be with him everywhere. "You are needed wherever you go," the mysterious eyes seemed to say. "That's why I must leave the choice to you." Boromir sighed. Gondor was calling him, pulling him strongly in the mighty voice of the River. And yet … the sparkling sun on the water … light blue eyes twinkling with joy … a smile, a laughter like sunrise, pearling and beautiful like the crystal veil of the waterfall …Yes, he needed her. And yes, she needed him. And three times yes, she needed Galathorn!

Oh how he wanted her! 'In good and in bad times.' And how much more even he wanted her to see. To meet the Healer. To have that vacuum filled. To be loved back from darkness into the light of life.

He could tell her. Perhaps no one else ever would. Show her. Try. Try with all he had, with all he was.

Then another thought crept into his mind, furtive and menacing like a spider looking for prey: What if she did not return his love? She had never made that clear explicitly. He was sure now of his feelings for her, but what about her feelings for him? The sunlight seemed to dim, the water to lose its lustre for a moment. Boromir faltered.

Then he set his jaws firmly, doggedly. 'Even so,' he thought, 'Even so.' His heart was aching, exulting with love, a deep, intense, sacrificial love he had never known before, would never have been able to muster himself. Galathorn! Give me her sadness. Let me bear it for her. Let me fight it for her. Let us fight the demons.

'What if you won't find her?' the doubting voice in his head started to nag again. 'What if you'll look different? What if she won't …' Boromir cut it short, brushed it aside like an irksome fly. Even the smallest chance made it worth trying. 'For your happiness, I would give kingdoms and princes.' (And ask nothing in return.) For her happiness, Someone had died.

For the last time, Boromir, son of Ilúvatar, breathed in the sweet scent of the pine forests, filled his lungs with the fresh, fragrant air of Rohan, and then sighed a deep sigh, exhaling Middle-earth.

"Galathorn. I have decided."


End file.
